


i don't know what i need

by charlesleeray



Category: Clone High
Genre: Depression, How Do I Tag, JFK is kind of a soft bastard, JFKgogh, JFgogh, Lunch, M/M, Painting, Possibly Unrequited Love, References to Depression, Teen Angst, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, soft angst, what the hell is their ship name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:14:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26413990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlesleeray/pseuds/charlesleeray
Summary: vincent calls the teen crisis helpline and finds more than a friend on the other end.
Relationships: JFK/Vincent Van Gogh (Clone High)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 588





	i don't know what i need

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY THIS. SUCKS? not beta read b;ablabla but. just wanted to get this out because i love them and also i needed to write!! excuse the plotholes

“This is the Teen Crisis Hotline! We’re busy right now, but stay on the phone and one of our students will get to you!”  
Joan’s voice echoed throughout Vincent’s mostly unfurnished room, drifting past the smeared canvases and cups of paint water situated right next to a plastic cup of coffee. He had been on hold for six and a half minutes, and was now balancing the pros and cons of talking to a classmate about his own personal life. He picked at his fingernails, stained with paint and charcoal, ears barely registering the shoddy classical music-- Clone High’s very own band!-- as he contemplated tossing his phone out the window along with himself. His most recent painting stared back at him in contempt, and he sat up to make it face the wall.   
The music cut short and was replaced with a stammering hello, grabbing Vincent’s attention. He grabbed the phone, holding it to his right ear.  
“Er, uh-- hello?”  
“Hi,” he started, immediately recognizing the voice as JFK’s. While his heart beat with joy that the one on the other end wasn’t Gandhi, it slowly shriveled as he realized the two were practically the same. “Is Joan there?”  
“Joan? Why would you, uh, need to talk to Joan?”   
“Um.” His brain scrambled for something other than ‘because she’ll listen’, and settled on the more polite option. “I had already talked to her.”  
“She’s off moping around,” JFK deadpanned. “I can, er, listen as good as her!”  
Vincent audibly sighed, letting his legs hang off his bed. “Alright.”  
“Shoot.”  
“I’m sad.” He cringed, biting at his thumb. “No, I-- well, I guess the right word would be depressed. Before you ask what it’s about, I can’t tell you. I don’t know either.” He paused to take a breath and heard JFK moving about, whispering something intelligible to who he guessed was Cleo. “It’s taken up most of my life. There are days when I can’t get out of bed, or I don’t see a reason to.”  
Papers shuffled on the other line. “Well, uh, this one here says that, er, to combat-- what’d you say?”  
“Depression?”  
“Yeah,” he responded. “Uh, tell your therapist… three things that you’re, er, excited about..”  
Vincent took a wild guess and concurred he was reading off some pamphlet they handed out in a counselor’s office. He gave him credit, though-- he sounded like he was trying. Maybe to impress Cleo, or maybe just out of the goodness of his heart.  
“It’s not the latter,” he groaned, covering the receiver. “Three things I’m excited about? In the future? Painting is one.”  
“Tell me about your, uh, drawings.”   
“I’m not good at it, ironically--” he could feel the portrait, which hung on his door, of the original Vincent Van Gogh’s eyes shooting a glare. “But I like it. It’s comforting, knowing that the only thing in the world that matters is inside that one canvas, and you can do anything to craft it.”  
“Well, I’ve seen your, uh, art up on the school walls.” Vincent’s heart unreasonably skipped a beat. “You have?” He questioned, like he wasn’t the one who had given his consent to put his artwork near the Digital Media class.   
“They’re nice. I, er, pass by them all the time. Dunno what they mean, but I like looking at them.”  
“That’s… great. I guess.” He wasn’t expecting JFK to grab the significance of them, but was flattered nonetheless. “But that’s all I can do. Paint, and paint, and paint. Put a piece of paper full of math problems in front of me, and you’ll get it back covered in charcoal.”  
He could almost hear JFK’s obnoxious smile through the phone. “I’m with you on that one. I, uh, don’t even go to math class.”  
“Oh. I know. We have the same class together. Anyways, other than that… I’m not looking forward to anything.”   
“What about your.. friends?” Even JFK hesitated on the word. Everybody knew Vincent never hung around anyone but Julius, and even then that was only to sit somewhere at lunch rather than eat in the bathroom stalls again.   
“None. At all. Only acquaintances.” There were times he did have friends, but they grew and changed and Vincent stayed the same and never bothered to ask again.   
There was a sharp whisper from Cleo he could make out. “Just tell him you’ll be his friend. Jesus!”   
“Er. I could be your, uh, friend.”  
“Thanks, but I highly doubt it.” The notion was laughable-- they both had nothing in common.  
JFK stammered. “No, I could! Really. You, uh, er-- you could eat lunch with me!”  
“I eat lunch in the art room now. You know that, right?”  
He heard him nod his head before realizing Vincent couldn’t see him. “That’s, er, just one lunch for tomorrow.” Before Vincent could disagree and make up a reason he didn’t need to eat with him, he went on. “That’s a date.”  
“A date?”  
JFK had already hung up, leaving him stuck alone in his room. Closing the phone, he chalked it up to JFK’s playboy attitude-- but he’d be lying if it didn’t make butterflies in his stomach, to imagine a date with him.  
“Wait. EW!” He gasped, though this was to throw off anybody who might’ve read his mind at the time.

Highlighter-colored hearts were doodled in every margin of Vincent’s notebook that day, distracting himself from the anxiety that JFK would be present in class- even if it was just to eat. He saw him in the hallways, taking care to avoid eye contact, yet still looking back to see if he did too. It had occurred to him that all those moments he spent drawing JFK himself weren’t just human studies, but a budding crush. He slapped his palm to his forehead.  
“Oh, God. I”m a hopeless romantic, aren’t I?”  
“Yeah you are.” Gandhi had suddenly appeared next to him, sending him five feet into the air. “You’ve got the hots for some girl, Van Gogh? Is it Joan?”  
“No,” Vincent said, then stepped to the side, walking quickly away from him.  
“THAT’S ALRIGHT, MAN! I can tell Joan for you!”  
Instead of turning to yell at Gandhi, Vincent bit his cheek to keep his mouth shut. If he yelled, the whole hallway would hear, and then the whole school would know in less than seconds. He took a quick turn and ended up in the men’s bathroom, locking himself up in a stall for the rest of class. When the bell rang, he could head to the art room. He came to the conclusion that JFK simply wouldn’t show up, and quelled his anxieties for just a bit.

Now there was fresh yellow paint on his clothes, some smeared on his cheek-- he had lost himself in painting even before he got to the art room. Every time the door squeaked open, he would jerk his head back, but it would always be Warhol or Da Vinci. Half of lunch had gone by before he finally felt a meek tap on his shoulder.   
“Sorry, I’m using the last of the blu--” he turned to apologize for who he thought was Monet, but got JFK’s puppy dog eyes instead.  
“Oh.”  
He was holding two sandwiches from Grassy Knoll, one labeled “VEGAN”. “You, er, seemed like the kind of person to, uh, not eat meat.”  
“I’m not, but I appreciate the thought.” Vincent took the sandwich, carefully unwrapping it. “Thank you. This means a lot to me.”  
“Yeah, er, don’t mention it.” His eyes glanced at the painting Vincent was working on. “What’s that?”  
“Corn field,” he replied, muffled by the food.   
“...why?”  
“I got to go see one when I was little. I started thinking about it today, and just grabbed the paintbrush and started painting. You can help, if you’d like.”  
Of course, he didn’t want to defile the original painting, but something about JFK’s stare had elicited the request.   
He crossed his arms with pride. “Well, why didn’t you ask me before! I’m, er, a professional artist!”  
This would turn out to be false, as half the canvas was now littered with obnoxiously colored trees and a cruelly painted sun, complete with sunglasses. Vincent found it oddly charming.   
“You see? Painting’s, er, in my blood.”  
“Definitely,” Vincent said, sneaking a glimpse at JFK. “Definitely.”

The phone rang again. Vincent anxiously awaited the pickup, picking at the strings on his jeans. Hot tears rolled down his cheek, and the only light came from his phone.  
“Teen Crisis Hotline. What’s up?”  
“Do you think I’ll ever have a chance?”  
“A...a chance to what?”  
He swallowed, running his hand through his hair. “Just a chance. For anything. Happiness. Love. Something good.”  
Silence.  
“I think we all get chances like that. Yours is coming soon.”  
“Yeah. I hope.” He didn’t trust Joan’s words, but decided to let her speak.  
“I mean, sometimes we never get what we want. Be it in relationships or in life, everything is unfair. But you can be happy, if you just try.”  
Like he hadn’t heard that before. “Thanks.”  
“Hope I helped!”   
He shut the phone, leaving himself in darkness. “You’d think someone like me would be getting chances.”  
The painting of the corn field laid on his floor. Two stick figures were drawn in the middle, one sporting a red and white sweater, and the other with ginger hair. Their hands were interlocked.  
“But not all of us are lucky, right?”


End file.
